


Wooden Teeth

by JustWaiting



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aunt/Nephew Incest, Cousin Incest, Depression, F/F, F/M, Family Issues, I can't promise this will be any good, I haven't written in years please don't kill me, I only have two chapters so far, I will use some things from the book as I see fit, I'm for sure going to Hell, PTSD, Self-Hatred, Self-Worth Issues, Slow Burn, Trauma, and none of them know how to handle it, but I already know it needs more, cuz I'm a slow author, everyone has PTSD to some degree, family bonds, hence the slow burn, i'm going to Hell for this ship, idk how okay I am with that, jonrya, seriously
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-10
Packaged: 2018-12-23 10:37:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11988066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustWaiting/pseuds/JustWaiting
Summary: “The wolf blood, Arya remembered now. I'll be as strong as Robb, I said I would. She took a deep breath, then lifted the broomstick in both hands and brought down across her knee. It broke with a loud crack, and she threw the pieces aside. 'I am a direwolf, and done with the wooden teeth.”Arya has some issues with who she is, what she is, and her worth.





	1. This is Not the Beginning

Jon Snow’s return to Winterfell was reminiscent of when King Robert had come to visit. The people were lined up, with the Starks in the forefront, a steady show of strength, and ready to welcome the journeyers into their home.

Though he knew her to be Sansa, it felt as though Catelyn Stark had risen from the dead and was watching him return. And a small Ned Stark was there as well.

It was a somber reminder, of just how life had changed from his childhood, to see Bran in his chair. To truly remember Rickon and Robb were gone, and whoever it was that looked like Ned, who looked like his father, was not. The thought of his lost family made his heart ache.

Slowly, however, the mirage of the dead faded into the faces of the living.  
And his heart stops, when he sees his little sister for the first time is six years.

He pushes the horse faster, breaking the procession, breaking away from the queen, and sees her walk forward as well.

He knew he looked ridiculous, the grin on his face wide and strange on such a somber man, but she was home. After so long...

He jumped off his horse and ignored the hands of the stable boy.

They called each other's name at the same time, and it was as though the years separating them melted away.

They held each other, laughter filling the courtyard and Jon felt a weight lift from his shoulders.

“I missed you so much,” they said.

Never leave me again, they said in their hearts.

Arya sighed happily, squeezing him once more, before moving away.

“I have never been happier to see someone,” she said, a small smile on her face, both their hands clasped together. Jon noticed they were callused and rough, like a working woman’s or even a man’s.

“You look like Father.” Again, they spoke in unison, as though through their words they were never parted.

Jon looked closely at his sister, memorizing her face before slowly drawing her back into his arms.

His heartbeat was slowing, to a pace of contentment, and he knew hers matched his.

\------

Jon would have been happy to hold Arya longer but he heard a loud roar and remembered the warriors he brought with him and the queen with her children.

Arya let go of Jon, and before he could register it, brandished a skinny sword.

“Needle,” he whispered.

Arya did not take her eyes off the dragons, though she did answer him with a soft yes.

“Put your sword down, you crazy little bitch,” a loud voice said.

Arya finally looked away, a shocked expression quickly fading away to stone.

“How is it that you are alive?! Tell me your secrets, what makes you the hardest man to kill?” She commanded, ignoring the chaos as Winterfell’s lords reached for their swords, eager to defend their princess.

Jon had already drawn his sword and was ready to attack the man, and would have if Arya’s hand did not still him.

“It’s a gift,” The Hound grinned.

Arya smirked. “Yes, it must be.”

“Who are you to talk to my sister like that!?” Jon demanded, angry on her behalf. 

“Yes,” Sansa agreed, “That is my sister, Ser Clegane.”

The Hound looked grimaced, “Of course, Little Bird”

Arya laughed, “Who is the bitch now, Hound?”

He grinned again and was about to reply when Drogon finally landed. The queen had finally arrived at Winterfell.

\-----

Arya put her sword away, face now devoid of any emotion.

“I wasn’t going to use her,” Arya explained. “I was just startled. Grabbing Needle is an instinct.”

Jon opened his mouth, wanting to tell Arya that he understood, and no one took her actions to heart before The Hound beat him to it.

“And a damned good one.” Clegane praised. “But this is the mother of dragons, and I doubt her children would take kindly to a threat.”

Arya laughed. “No, I suppose not.” She looked at the Northmen, and with a nod, they lowered their weapons, though they glared hostilely at the queen and her party, even with her armed with dragons and a large army.

Jon did not want this gathering to end with fire and blood. He did not want his new found family fighting with the woman he pledged himself to, to their queen. The North, however, remembered what happened last time Starks and Targaryens were enemies. Mayhaps, they will not suffer the same fate as his uncle and grandfather. Nor of their aunt.

Winter had come.

“Come, little sister; you must meet the queen.”


	2. Troubled Sea so Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya's newest quote: Fuck you and fuck your apologies.

Bran and Arya were in the godswood, facing the weir tree and sitting in a somewhat awkward, somewhat companionable silence, before both Starks tense, sensing another presence.

Bran relaxes, turning himself around to see Theon.

“Theon,” he greets, “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

Arya’s grip on Needle tensed, before letting go and standing to face Theon as well.

“No,” she agrees with Bran. “Nor was I.”

Theon stared at the two Starks, seemingly gathering his wits.

Arya’s voice was frigid as she gave the command, “Speak, Theon.” Her patience for this man was nonexistent, and it took Bran resting his hand on her arm to keep her from killing him where he stood. That, and the godswood was a holy place. There weren’t many things Arya cared for or held respect to left in the world, but her siblings' wishes were one thing she cherished, and the gods of old were gods she kept near her heart.

The man fell to his knees and a flood of words left his mouth. “I want to apologize. For what I did to your family, to Winterfell-”

“And I forgive you,” Bran said, eyes kind on an emotionless face. “You saved our sister. We forgive you.”

“Thank you,” Theon cried, “Thank you! I-”

“Do not deserve forgiveness. And I will not give you mine.” Arya stated. It was a fact, held as true as the sun rising from the east, true as summer snows, as true as Wights marching to her home. Theon Greyjoy did not deserve forgiveness.

“Arya,” Bran admonished.

“No, my lord, she is correct,” Theon whispers. “I do not.”

“Yes, I know. That is what I said.”

“Arya!” Bran growled out. “It was not just you who suffered from Theon’s actions! You-”

She laughed, shrill and incredulous.

“Not just I who suffered!?” She shakes her head and laughs some more. “Of course not! I know this! Do you think I am ignorant of the plights others have suffered?! I know what I am called. Lady Stoneheart, a killer with no conscience.” She spares a glance at her brother, lip curling in anger before looking back at Theon. On his knees before her, with her looking down at him. She ignored the turning of her stomach.

“Remember, it was not just you who lost their home that day, Bran. It was not just you who suffered for what this coward did.”

“I know, and-”

“Be quiet.” Arya walked closer to Theon, and grabbed his face in her hand. “You be quiet.”

She threw his face down.

“You killed my brother.”

Theon rose. “No, Ramsey-”

“You gave him the key! No, you opened the door for him! Let him waltz into our home and burn it! For all intents and purposes, you held and notched the bow and let him loose the arrow into my brother’s heart!”

Once more, she pushed him into the snowy ground.

“I didn’t kill him!” he sobbed.

“Arya,” Bran called her name, voice hardened.

She ignored him.

“You killed him! A sweet boy, who would run to you, share his sweets with you, and would eagerly wait for you so he could tell you the newest story he had! You killed my brother!”

“Arya! Enough.”

Another voice joined the fray, deeper and angrier than Bran’s, even than hers.

She turned towards him, recognizing Sansa, and the queen, and The Imp. The Hound, Beric Dondarrion, and Gendry too.

What a show I am providing, Arya thought. It was as though she had never left the Faceless Men, always one face for another; always one show and then off to the next.

Arya looked back at her brother, eyes hardening, and said clearly, in a voice of stone, “No.” And she turned her back.

“Not only,” she continued, minding the sound of her brother’s steps coming closer to her. She spoke louder, and faster, afraid she would be silenced. She had to let him know. That the north remembers, and she did not forget.

“Not only did you kill my brother, but you killed and charred two innocent boys. You are responsible for burning my home, turning it into something I do not recognize, and you killed three boys of Winterfell, and many more!”

Jon stopped, and she could feel him behind her, angry and proud. But was it pride at her words, or was it his own pride? Was he angry at her for not following in his footstep, for not forgiving this craven and pitiful man?. She used to never have doubts as to what Jon was feeling or thinking. She did not want to understand what that meant about her.

She decided to worry about that on another day.

“Look at me, Theon.” Her words were softer now, a river on a calm day.

The man looked up. Theon. Theon, a man who was raised along side of her family. A boy who her brothers loved. Who she once considered a brother. A boy who betrayed them.

“I know what it is to be a hostage. To be in a land with no familiar faces, and to not know who to trust. But my brothers had nothing to do with your status as a hostage. My brothers loved you as one of their own. And because of you,” she knelt down and looked him in the eyes. “I have lost my youngest brother. I loved him. And now he is dead, buried in the ground. And if he was alive, he probably wouldn’t even know me by my face and I love him still. And I want so very much to hold him.” She put her hand on his face and ignored the tears in her eyes. She knew they would not fall. “But he is dead. Along with two Winterfell boys, and many others. Their deaths are on your head. My home being desecrated, is on your head. My home being a place where my sister was brutalized, is on your head. I want you dead. I would have you burned, so you could feel the pain of those boys. I would shoot you a thousand times over, so you could feel my baby brother’s terror and pain. But my siblings wish otherwise.”

She stands, wiping the snow off her legs and looking down at him, eyes dry. “Be grateful for that. But know this; If I ever, even for a moment, think that my family grows tired of you, I will kill you. And not even your god could bring you back.”

She turns and looks at the queen.

“If I may be excused, your majesty?”

Violet eyes widen, and she nods her head. “Yes, you may go.”

Arya curtseys, and pictures how odd it must look, a curtsey in trousers, “Thank you, your grace.”

And she leaves the godswood behind.

\-------

Arya remembers when she was small, and Rickon was still just rolling over, not running and creating havoc, her mother would brush her hair.

Her mother would despair at the knots, and sat her down, grabbing a brush.

“Are you a fish, or a wolf, Mama?” Arya had asked, playing with the baby’s toe and flinching when her mother would yank her head back.

“Be still, child.” her mother would admonish, exasperated by her young daughter. “And it’s direwolf dear, not wolf.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, oh.”

“Oh! Oh!” Rickon sang back.

Arya laughed, throwing her head back.

“Ouch! Mother, that hurt!” She cried, the last stubborn knot bringing tears to her eyes.

Her mother laughed, and lifted Arya onto her lap. “Not one minute ago I was Mama, and now I am Mother?” she kissed her tears away and held her close. “At least I will know when you are cross with me.”

“I am never cross with you,” she lied, smiling into her mother’s neck.

“Of course not,” Catelyn agreed. “Are you tired?”

Arya shook her head, “No!”

Catelyn smiled, and held her closer, and kissed her head. “Bran has already fallen asleep, and look, Rickon is on his way too. There is no shame in being tired, sweetling.”

Arya lifted her head, still secure in her mother’s arms, and saw her baby brother’s mouth open wide in a yawn.

She shook her head again, and tried to burrow even deeper into her mother. “That’s because they’re babies. I’m six! Almost a woman grown!”

That brought a loud laugh from her lady mother, startling Rickon from sleep, where he frowned at them before resting his head once more.

She laughed softer, “Almost a woman grown indeed. Come, off to bed with you. Say goodnight to your brother.”

Arya did as she was told, before grabbing her mother’s hand and leaving her brother behind.

As her mother lead her to the room she shared with Sansa, Arya looked at her mother and admired how her hair shined in the fires. She wondered if her hair shined too, or if that would be something that the gods would keep from her too. She wondered if she was given anything from her mother. She wondered if her mother truly was her mother, and ignored the swooping feeling of dread that came with it.

Her mother opened the heavy door, and tucked her into bed, with Sansa snoring gently in the bed across from her.

She kissed her forehead, “Goodnight, my sweet wild girl.” The words whispered into her soul and brought a smile to her face.

“Goodnight Mother. I love you.”

“I love you too. And Arya?”

She struggled to open her eyes. “...Yes?”

“I am both Trout and Direwolf. The woman is important too. Sweet dreams.”

The woman is important too. After that night, she would read histories where women conquered and ruled, when women fought, and women rode dragons. Where women were queens and mothers and wives.

That night, Arya dreamed she was important too.

\-------  
There was no statue of her mother. No statue of her brothers. That would need rectifying. She wondered if her mother would require a sword laid upon her lap, to keep her spirit satisfied. Her mother loved fiercely, and her hatred was strong and unmoving. She had seen it directed at Jon, and at the time, she couldn't understand how a woman who loved so much could hate a boy who had no say with his birth. She still couldn't, but the hate itself; unrelenting and unforgiving, she understood.

She was afraid of what her mother would think of her if she was alive.

“I am just the executioner.” Her words haunted her, followed her through the halls, in the shadows of the day. She was doused in blood, and her freshest kill sickened her.

Petyr Baelish deserved to die, there is no doubt about it. But he was a guest under their home. Under their roof. And she cut his throat. She did not hear his last words, she did not allow him to worm his way out of the situation. The dice were thrown, a gamble was made, and if he wanted to live, he should have left sooner.

He was a guest, but she killed him, and she was no better than The Frey’s. 

What would her mother say, after she too was killed in a hall where her murderers sat to eat, drink and be merry.

What would Robb say? Her brother, more wolf than man, would he approve of her ways? And Rickon, young Rickon, whose favorite thing to do was run and laugh. Would he know her? Would she know him, had he lived? Or would she further traumatize him as she did Sansa. Arya was afraid of the answer and was glad they were dead so she would never face their rejection.

She flinched back from the intrusive thought, horror stilling her blood.

The dead are dead, she justified. They care not about any of the living. She did not wish her family any harm, and devil thoughts did not make her a kin slayer. Still, her hands felt as though she had been the one to cut her mother’s throat, stab her brother, and shoot the arrow that pierced Rickon’s heart.

She could taste blood in her mouth and she spat it out, shock waking her from her stupor. She had bit through her bottom lip. When had she done that? Why would she do that?

She felt as though she was going mad.

The pain helped clear her mind though, and she realized that she truly was not glad her family was dead; she just could not bear to think of them hating her.

But if they were alive, Arya knew, they would hate her, and see her for the monster she is.

Which hurt. She missed her family. She missed the Winterfell of her memories, she missed her childhood. She missed not having blood on her hands, she missed not being afraid. She missed crying, of all the pathetic and shameful things to miss, but she could not remember the last time in six years when she last cried. 

She used to be the biggest crybaby. She cried when she was humiliated, she cried when she fell, and she cried whenever she was told what she could and could not do, simply because there was nothing else she could do but hurt at the constant rejection.

She would cry and run. Run to Jon, the only one she truly trusted with her tears, or to her room, where she’d hide her face until the next day, and she would try again.

She remembered crying to Jon about all her crying, after Sansa and Jeyne picked on her, laughing about how she pretended to be so tough but would cry at the drop of a hat, or whenever things didn’t go her way. Jon had said there was no shame in crying, as long as she got back up. He then proceeded to tell her she did cry a bit too much.

She had punched him, wiped her face clear, and ran to her room, hoping to miss Septa Mordane and Mother so she would not have to explain herself.

Arya had a self-deprecating grin on her face, and could not help but laugh at her memories. Maybe she didn't miss crying as much as she had thought, given all the tears she'd cried in her past.

Maybe she used all her tears up, crying on frivolous things- like curtseys and disappointing Mother- that she couldn't cry at the important things- like her family dying. Maybe her tears were all gone.if he was alive,

She stayed in the tower where her brother had fallen, and when the sun set, she snuck out and went to Winter Town. Ale and a warm meal would put her at ease, and maybe she’d feel ready to face the morrow after. And if not… she could always play the part of willing participant when push comes to shove.

After she had her fill of food and drink, she sat and listened to the stories her people were saying, the rumours they were spreading. About how this winter was turning out to be a real shit one, the queen and her dragons, Lady Stoneheart training with her Needle and dagger. Of Lady Sansa and her next marriage, Lord Bran and his strange melancholy. How the King in the North kneeled to the Targaryen.

Her people were afraid. Of her and her family, of the unending amount of soldiers this foreign queen, of the whispers of dead men walking.

Arya quietly left, swaying gently and feeling warmer than she had in a long time. She missed the warm sun in Bravos. All this time she was missing home, and now she misses a place she will never be able to see again. She wonders if she’ll ever be satisfied.

She walked through the gates of Winterfell, nodding to the guards, and wondered how she could reassure her people. She was home now. She was Arya Stark once again. She would do her duty to her people. Starks protected and held Winterfell for 8000 years. Her family would not be the Starks to lose Winterfell twice. She looked around, and she felt the strength thousands of years old give her courage. Winterfell was her home. She belonged here.

Nodding to herself, she began to formulate plans and ideas. Winterfell was her home, hers and her family’s. They would stay strong. She needed them to be strong. She would make them strong.

No more lone wolves, she thought, falling into her bed. Only the pack can survive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya doesn't really care for Theon anymore, nor does she give a rat's ass as to what he has gone through. As far as she sees it, he betrayed her family, and he can rot in all the seven hells. Like, I cannot fathom Arya forgiving Theon for what he's done. She may tolerate him, but forgiveness? No. Not at all. She holds grudges. Long ones, that usually end in death.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N (aka long ass post no one asked for)
> 
> Not much, I know, but this felt a good place to stop, mostly because I couldn't think of how to write the scene of them greeting Dany. I want to apologize now, for the fact there will be many inconsistencies seeing as how I haven't actually watched a full season of Game of Thrones. Nor have I finished a book. I'm a quarter of the way through the first one, bear with me guys.
> 
> Anyway, it's gonna be sorta TV!Compliant, only sorta because I hate the show. And like I said, I haven't watched all of it. Sorry, not sorry.
> 
> Um… premise of the fic: Acknowledgment of trauma, and how Arya deals (or doesn’t) with it.
> 
> Also, I did read the leaks for s8. Though I'm not sure how accurate it is, it was enough to propel me back to writing once again. And... I'm not a fan on D&D's writing/characterization of Bran and Arya, A.K.A. My Sweet Summer Children. They're my favorite characters. I started watching the show for them. I'm not even gonna start on how upset D&D have made me. I write this fanfiction out of spite for them. Okay. Now, I'm done.


End file.
